The Curse of Oropher
by Katharine Faith
Summary: The only acceptable "Thranduil-tortures-Legolas" story on the Net, as far as I'm concerned. This one's for the ladies! Final edit complete.


**The Curse of Oropher**

_By Katharine_

_Disclaimer: _The Lord of the Rings_ and all related properties are copyrights of J.R.R. Tolkien, et al. This story is written for entertainment purposes only. No infringement is intended._

**Warnings: Rated G for utter nonsense. This is the _only_ acceptable "Thranduil-tortures-Legolas" story on the Net.**

**Beware the first-person POV; for some reason, this fic refused to go third-person for me!**

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I can just see the glint of silver out of the corner of my eye. My father's wide, soft sleeve brushes against my cheek, and I brace myself, knowing what is to come. Long fingers splay across my head, holding me immobile. Then, the cool kiss of metal, followed quickly by a fiery spark of pain. I let out the breath I have been holding, trying to will away the lingering throbbing.

Some of my reaction must have leaked through to my expression, despite my efforts to maintain composure. My father places a finger beneath my chin and lifts my face to the light. "Do not look at me so, my son," he tells me, his tone soft but as steely as the instrument he wields. "'Tis a necessary undertaking, and one that you would do well to grow accustomed to."

"As you did?" I ask him, unable to keep the resentment from my voice.

"Yes," he replies without hesitation. "And as my own adar did before me. 'Tis the curse of Oropher that constrains me to administer this hurt to you, nin iôn."

"Be that as it may, Ada, I think you enjoy it far too much," I hear myself reply sullenly.

My father raises one precisely shaped brow and levels a disapproving stare on me. I fight the urge to cringe away from his gaze. "Surely you are not disputing with me yet again, Legolas? You do recall what came of your last attempt to dissuade me from this duty, do you not?"

I do indeed. I shiver despite myself at the memories of the pain and humiliation I suffered. I grip the arms of the chair and nod slightly. "My apologies, Ada. Please, continue." I nearly choke on my words, but I know that I must not distract him by rousing his anger.

Apparently satisfied, my father steps near once again and resumes his work. I clench my teeth against the pain, willing my face to remain still, above all else resisting the impulse to flinch away. Ada continues methodically, his sleeve sweeping across my face time and time again, the cold kiss to bite, the hot spark to twinge. I close my eyes and pray to Lady Varda that it will be over soon.

At length, the green fabric of Ada's sleeve pulls away from my face, and I hear his satisfied sigh. "'Tis finished, nin iôn. Come, I would have you see the product of your suffering."

I open my eyes, which burn and glisten with reflexive tears that I cannot quite blink back. My skin burns as well, as though seared by Anor's flame. I know well what my father wishes me to see, and I can hardly bear to look upon my altered visage. It is unnatural, and the trial I must endure to accomplish it grates harshly on my pride. I glower openly at Ada. "I do not wish to see, Ada."

My father frowns and holds up his glistening instrument in warning. "You will look into the glass, nin iôn, or mayhap I shall decide that I have not finished after all."

A stab of horror races through my guts, and again, I hear the scornful laughter of times past. I leap from my chair and stride to the glass, bile rising in my throat at my father's satisfied nod.

As always before, my transformed countenance is indeed strange to my own eyes. The smooth skin above the bridge of my nose is red and inflamed, and throbs smartly. But most drastic of all is the astonishing absence of the dark stubble that had begun to accumulate. All that is left is pale—now reddened with abuse—flesh, and two _perfectly sculpted eyebrows._

My father replaces the silveron tweezers upon the dresser, and places a comforting hand on my shoulder. "'Tis the curse of Oropher, nin iôn," he murmurs.

I have decided that I hate my grandsire.

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**Notes:**

Yes, Thranduil just tweezed his poor son's eyebrows. Ghastly!

(Kate rubs her aching brow and shakes her fist) To blazes with our image-obsessed society!

And to blazes with every other horrid "Thranduil-abuses-Legolas" fic out there! Die! DIE!


End file.
